


The Space Between Us

by jendavis



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Missing Scene, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 17:35:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8854615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jendavis/pseuds/jendavis
Summary: My headcanon on how the ride back might've gone down.(Spoilers for S07E08)





	

It feels like the moment he gives it any thrust at all, the bike'll just roar out from underneath him. So he keeps it slow. Every jolt of the road under the tires shoots up into his ribcage. His arms and his back are exhausted; it already feels like he's been riding for three days straight. He knows he's gripping the handles too tight; he can't make himself let go just yet. 

Part of it, he knows, is that Dwight, or whoever the fuck's been using the bike these days, is shit at maintenance. There's a front end wobble that means either the tire needs to be realigned, or the neck bearings mean tightening. The brakes feel soft and the engine's too rough; it needs an oil change at the very least. 

But gradually, as the first mile creeps past, and the second and third go a little faster, he's starting to get a feel for it again. For riding, for having air moving past his face, for whatever this is, now. As long as he focuses on that- on the incrementally increasing amounts of _away_ that he's building up, here- he'll be good. 

The grip on his shoulder, though, is something that he hasn't started to contemplate. But he notices the squeeze; it's a warning, and Jesus leans a little closer, just long enough to speak into into his ear. "You're going to want to take a left up ahead." 

Daryl eases them through the curve- when they shift their weight on the other end of the turn, that's when he figures out that Jesus' other hand must be braced against the seat. 

There hadn't been time to ask him if he'd ridden a bike on their way out, but Jesus is sitting right behind him like a ghost, giving him all the space that's possible while still managing to keep his balance. 

"It'll be about fifteen miles, then we gotta start skewing north," Jesus adds, after a minute. It's hard to tell if he sounds hesitant; Daryl's still not used to his voice, the intonations he uses. "Road up to that point was clear a few days ago, if you want to open it up."

He nods, but there's no shift behind him, and he wonders what Jesus is waiting for. 

"All right. Hang on though. You fall off, I ain't comin' back for your ass." 

He means it as a joke- that's what real people do, when they're okay, they make jokes- only it's probably not funny. It's not until the hand returns to his shoulder that he even knows he's been heard. 

"Okay," comes the reply, and it's impossible to tell without looking, but he can sense the movement even before he feels a slight tug at his waist. There's something- a knuckle, maybe- prodding at his right hip as Jesus adjusts his grip, but his hand settles lightly. 

It's not the most secure hold Daryl can think of, but it's enough and it's not getting in the way. It just tenses a little at Daryl's nodded warning. 

He twists the throttle and they go, faster than he's gone in a long time, and the next mile's eaten up in a little more than a minute. 

There ain't anyone else out here, which is a relief, because he ain't looking for anyone. But there's a sign up ahead, next to a burned up old barn, that looks familiar. If they'd turned south, there, they'd be at Alexandria inside of two hours. 

"Where're we goin'?" he asks, as they pass it by. He thinks he knows the answer already; he just ain't sure what to make of it, or if it needs to mean anything at all. He knows for certain where he _is_ , though, for the first time in weeks. It's a start. 

"Hilltop?" It sounds kind of like a question, but Jesus, so far as Daryl's thought of him up to this point, doesn't seem to be the type to ask questions. Maybe it's just the wind, or something. 

Just in case it is, though, he nods, before edging the speed up. The front end wobble seems to even out once they hit 45 MPH, and once that's gone, the only sensation he's aware of is the rush of wind against his face. 

\--- 

A few miles later, he rolls his shoulders, just to ease the bone-deep ache that's setting into them again. Jesus' hand flinches away from his shoulder so fast that for a second, Daryl just freezes. 

It's fucked up. All this not thinking he's doing, he'd actually forgotten Jesus was behind him. But there's no sudden movement behind him, no sudden lightening of his load. 

"Still there?"

"Yeah."

He swallows. His throat is dry. "Sorry. Shoulder's acting up, is all, you don't have to-"

Doesn't have to what? 

"No worries," Jesus says. There's a tugging on his left hip, now, that matches the right side, and if his fingers aren't as light on his belt this time around, compared to the liberties he's gotten used to expecting of people, it barely feels like anything at all. "I'm good."

\--- 

The bitch of it is, by the time they're on County Road H, Daryl's really starting to think that he's well and truly _got_ this. With each passing mile, his spine starts to unbend a little more. The road's narrower, here, it's true. And it's more cluttered than the highway'd been, slower going. But the spots of downed branches or ransacked-vehicle debris are problems that Daryl knows how to navigate. 

And yeah. He's sore, and he's tired, and whether it's the peanut butter he'd wolfed down, the blood in his mouth, or the sick twisted feeling that comes with killing someone who ain't already dead, there's a part of him that just wants to pull over now that they're clear. Rest for a minute. Stretch his legs and let the blood back into his arms. 

But he's alive, and he's driving back on his own bike, and it's more than he'd had any right to expect. The second he stops might be the second this _all_ stops. 

\--- 

Eventually, though, they crest a hill and find themselves facing a low valley, and he _has_ to stop. 

He recognizes those walls. He can see the top of the- house ain't the word for it- _estate_ , and he can see a few of the FEMA trailers arranged evenly beside it. 

It's only another mile or so, and they'll be there, right along with whatever's coming next and-

-he just needs a minute to think about what that's supposed to be, because even if Jesus turns on him and tries taking him prisoner or something, he'd said it himself: Hilltop doesn't have the fighters. And if Daryl's not going to be a prisoner, he's going to have to be something else. 

Right now, he's still escaping. He's got that much down, but that's about it. He doesn't know what's supposed to come next.

They've slowed enough that his feet have dropped down from the footpeg to drag against the ground, steadying their slow roll without him having to tell them to do so. Behind him, Jesus is adjusting his grip, but it's distracting, like he's suddenly having a hard time figuring out where to put his hands. 

_Just fucking grab on wherever_ , he thinks about grumbling. Ain't like anyone else- including Daryl- ever gave a shit. But the moment Jesus follows the command, the signal will have been given. At that moment, they'll have to get moving again. 

"What's wrong?"

He shakes his head. It's fucking stupid. Jesus had _told_ him they were going to Hilltop. Ain't his fault Daryl hadn't fucking stopped to think what that _meant_ until now. 

"You need a minute, or are you good?"

"'m fine." 

All he needs to do is give it some gas. Whatever's going to be there is going to be there regardless if he's approaching at 60 miles an hour, or an absolute crawl. 

So he might as well get it over with. 

But they're still not moving. 

"Hey." Jesus tugs deliberately at the fabric of his shirt, prompting him to glance back at him. 

He doesn't quite make it all the way- it's hard to without unbalancing them both- but it's okay. He's not lookin' to look that close anyhow. He can see, though, that Jesus has some sorta grin on his face. 

"Don't worry about it, it's cool. They'll let us in. Even if Gregory's being an ass, Maggie'll make it happen."

"Maggie?" 

Jesus drops his hands off of him completely; it's only then that Daryl realizes how hard he'd flinched. 

"Shit." His sigh is no louder or quieter than his voice. "Yeah. She's okay. Sorry- I should've told you first thing. She's there, and Sasha and Enid too. It's all right."

There's no point in setting Jesus straight, in letting him know how far off-base his reassurances are. "Yeah."

Taking a breath larger than he'd been planning, Daryl's throat convulses, but he clamps down on whatever it is before it can happen. Instead, he presses his tongue against the sore on the roof of his mouth; it's been there for weeks, and it still hurts like hell. Maybe they've got mouthwash down there; he probably needs it. But the irritation goads him enough. He takes a breath, picks up his right foot, which Jesus recognizes for the signal it is, and they're rolling again. 

Daryl's left foot only drags on the pavement for a moment, until they're up to speed, turning off down the road. He's going faster than they probably need to. They're alerting everyone to their arrival and as soon as they're down in the valley, there's no seeing anything on the other side of the wall. 

Sasha and Enid are there. _Maggie's_ there. Alive- but beyond that?

He could just keep going. Stop the bike, let Jesus off, and head on down the road. 

It's bad enough that he escaped. There are going to be consequences for what he's done. 

There are _always_ consequences. And he always brings them down on everyone else. 

He'd already gotten Glenn killed. Maggie doesn't need to have to look at him walking around to boot, and she sure as _hell_ doesn't need whatever punishment Negan's going to rain down on them once he figures out where he and the bike had gone. 

They're pulling up to the gate, though. It's the last point where he'll be able to fix any of it.

No. He can't fix it. But he can minimize the damage. 

He slows the bike to a stop and cuts the engine. He's pretty sure it's leftover road vibration that doesn't have anywhere else to go, but his hands are shaking, so he wraps them around the handlebars tightly before Jesus, who's clambering off behind him, can see. 

"Jesus?" There's a guy shouting down from the top of the wall that Daryl doesn't recognize in the half glance the crick in his neck allows him. "What the hell, man?"

"Open the gate, Eliot, come on. It's clear." 

The man disappears, and some shouting on the other side that Daryl's too wind-worn to make out. Paul's turning back to smile at him; it starts off bland, before being edged out by concern. 

"You good?"

He nods, drops his eyes down to the worn-out patch of grass in front of the bike's front tire. "I shouldn't be here."

"Only place you shouldn't be is the place you just came from," Jesus shrugs, and is about to say something more when there's a grinding coming from the gate. It's opening. 

All Daryl can see is a sliver of that asshole Gregory's big fucking house before someone's running out. 

Even without looking up, he recognizes the shape and movement in his peripheral, and looking up isn't even an option anymore. 

"Daryl?" Maggie's voice is wavering, as she stops short just to the right of the bike, like her feet and her voice had intended on doing more. 

He opens his mouth to speak. He can't. He twists, the engine revs, but he can't move, and doesn't know which way to go. 

" _Daryl_."

Fuck, now she sounds worried. And her concern is digging in, rooting after him, and he doesn't know how to meet it. It would be easier if she was shouting, if the anger would just come out while he's _expecting_ it, for once.

She's moving closer- too close- but there's nowhere to go without tipping the bike over, and she deserves more than that. 

He owes her. 

Releasing the grip his teeth have on the inside of the lip, he tries to make good. Gives her the one thing he's got to offer. It feels like he's swallowing glass. "I can leave."

"The _hell_ you can," she grumbles, moving so fast that it registers like falling until her arms are swung around his shoulders. He brings his arms up as a reflex, just to keep her back. To keep them both upright. "Please, come inside, we've been- I've been worried sick about you." 

She's so close that he can feel the humid spot of her breath against his hair, and he's not sure when he grabbed onto her arm, he just knows that he's done it; he's holding on too tight and it's not doing anything to stop the shaking, it's just getting worse. She's too close and she wants something of him or from him and he doesn't have much left to offer. 

"I'm sorry," he says, for his grip, which he loosens, and for _Glenn_. For forcing her to come out and deal with the wreck of him, shivering like some half-dead dog on her doorstep, and for how hard he's thinking that all he really wants her to do is back the hell _off_. 

"Listen to me," she sniffs, pulling away just enough to talk, but not letting go of him. "You got nothing to be sorry for, all right? I promise."

He'd thought he was done losing his shit, but Maggie looks like she's hurting and now there are people gathering 'round, looking at him and he just wants to scream at them to fuck off and get gone. She steps around the front of the bike, her hands where his had been, before he'd tried burying them against his sides. 

Already, Jesus is filling the space she's left, but he doesn't seem to take up quite as much room. 

He _is_ blocking his view of the others, at least for the moment, though. 

Daryl's not sure whether rubbing his eyes is something he should do right now, or if it'll just draw more attention.

"Come inside," Maggie says, after a moment, her voice even and calm. "Get cleaned up, get some rest." He thinks she's looking over at Jesus, but can't be sure; all he knows is that it seems to give a few extra inches of breathing room. "All right. Look. I'm getting that it's going to take a little while before you can hear me, and that's okay. I get it. But Daryl?"

He takes a breath, flicks his eyes up at the command to see her half-smile. "I'm around whenever you want. And I'm really happy you're here, okay?"

"Okay."

Her smile grows a little more solid and she nods, back-stepping slowly towards the gate. Jesus- Paul, apparently- waits a few seconds before speaking. 

"All right, the easiest thing to do is probably just have you follow me. I'll show you where to stash your bike, get cleaned up and the rest of it. Sound good?"

"Sure." He gets his fingers around the handlebars, this time without incident. The rubberneckers have fallen back; the ones that aren't following Maggie back up to the estate are still watching, but it's from a distance. Still, he can hear the gate grinding against the ground as it's closed behind him. There's no corresponding latch sound, however. No click, no lock that he can hear from here. 

Jesus walks quickly enough that Daryl's at no real risk of running him down, but he's following closely enough that he has to keep an eye on it; only when Jesus is slowing down and pointing at a patch of dirt next to one of the FEMA trailers does he get the chance to look around at anything else. 

They're at the far end of the line of trailers, close to the wall. Looking down the row as he dismounts, he can see a water tower back behind the main house; he hadn't noticed it last time. But there are people there, some following them up from the gate, some gathering on the house's front patio. 

"Park it here, we can take it down to the garage later, if you want," Jesus calls back over his shoulder, as he opens the door to the trailer. "C'mon."

His legs are tired; it's familiar, though. Only takes a few steps for him to forget about it as he takes the step up and through the door. 

It's neat in here, tidy, though Jesus looks concerned as he starts rummaging.

"This was my place, for a while," he's telling him, shaking his head against the argument that Daryl's just starting to form. "I grabbed a spare room at the house when Maggie got here so she'd have somewhere to escape to that wasn't too far from the infirmary." Finally finishing whatever it is that he's been intent on doing- apparently opening and closing three cupboards and moving a metal bucket off to the side on the small counter. "There's a bathroom- it's ridiculously tiny, but it's got an approximation of a shower at least- right through here." 

It only takes Jesus two paces to reach the door of the closet-sized room, but he's reaching around the side, rummaging around some more to bring out a pile of cloth. As Daryl blinks, it sorts itself out into a towel, some clothing. Which apparently, given the assessing look that's too quick to react to, isn't going to suffice. 

"Hang on," Jesus says, disappearing for a moment around the corner. 

Daryl risks another three steps the moment he's out of sight, then makes himself stop. Nothing bad's going to happen if he gets caught standing here. Jesus isn't hunting him. 

He's hunting down another pair of jeans, from the looks of it. 

"Okay. These should fit better." The new pile of fabric is thrust out towards him. "If they don't, help yourself to anything on the shelves, it's all clean. And if you want to crash out for a bit, well," Jesus smirks, gesturing at the cot that's not two feet from Daryl's knees. 

"Thanks," he says, when he realizes Jesus is edging past him, heading for the door. 

"Sure thing." He stops in the still open doorway, looking out and then glancing back at him with the same expression he'd worn when he'd caught him bashing Fat Joey's brains in at the Savior's base. 

That had only been a few hours ago. Someone would've found his body by now. They could be-

"I'm going to get you a toothbrush," Jesus says, reaching the door. "Gotta run up to the house, but I'll be right back. So if you hear knocking in a few minutes, it's just me, all right?"

"Don't have to," he says too quickly. "Your place anyway, right?"

Jesus shrugs, but doesn't say anything, and isn't moving, so Daryl nods and slips into the bathroom and closes the door behind him. 

It's cramped in here. There's barely enough room for him to pull his stolen clothes off. There is, however, a polished metal mirror over the sink, which is a little bit warped but manages to show him exactly, down to the smallest detail, a whole lot of things he doesn't want to look at. 

Blood on his jaw that's probably not his. A patchy beard- more gray than he's expecting to see- which needs to get gone at some point. Bags under his eyes and bruises and skin that's too pale and sunburnt and discolored all at once. His mouth's a dry, cracked mess, enough that he doesn't want to risk opening it; the inside's not going to be any better either.

It takes a few seconds to figure out how to get the water running; it's freezing but he jumps in immediately anyway, and forces himself to lean into the thin stream pouring down from the hand-held shower-head clipped to the wall. The cold water stings at first, and provides no relief at all for his sore muscles, but it knocks back the dizziness that's started creeping on.

He keeps it short. Just enough to wash the grime off, not enough that he has time to panic from just lookin' down at the sight of himself. Just as the water's staring to heat up, he cuts it off. Jesus hasn't told him what the rules are, he doesn't know how much he's allowed. The shampoo he'd taken from the half-empty bottle might already be edging up on that line. 

Drying himself off, he pulls the pants on; they're a decent enough fit, but the shirt's another story- the only thing it has going for it is the lack of dried brain matter. 

He's about to open the door, to head out of the bathroom, when he realizes he can't make himself move. He doesn't want to stay here; it's cramped and it's small and the air's cold on his still-damp skin. 

It's not that he hasn't been alone. They'd kept him locked up in the dark with nothing but his own thoughts, leaving his brain to do their torturing for them. But right now, he's safe, or at least as much as he ever is, and there's nobody looking at him, nobody expecting anything. 

It's stupid. He knows what's on the other side of the door. He knows there's nothing lying in wait. 

"Daryl, you okay?"

Shit. Looks like there is. Grimacing- it almost looks like a smile in the mirror, until he makes the mistake of looking at it head on- he squares his shoulders.

"Yeah," he says, steadying his hand against the doorknob before swinging it open. Jesus, standing just on the other side, jumps back quickly. 

"Sorry." There's toothpaste and a toothbrush being held out to him, but Jesus- he's more about evasion than invasion, Daryl's figured that much out- doesn't look up past the collar of his shirt. "Um. There should be a comb in that wire basket thing, if you want." 

He backs off a few more steps- there doesn't seem to be much of anywhere to go- and sits down on the bench next to the fold-out table, which might've been his plan all along. Apparently, he's gone back to just letting Daryl _be_ as he starts rummaging through the pockets of his coat. 

A pack of matches, a handful of pens, and a deck of cards are all that Daryl gets a look at before turning away. By the time he's standing in front of the sink again, he's decided that closing the door would be too obvious; he's not sure it's how he should be repaying all of this. Standing around wondering about it won't make it any better, so he makes quick work of brushing his teeth before fighting the comb through his hair. 

Jesus glances up from the odds and ends he's scattered on the table, appraising him quickly but without comment. 

"You hungry? Chow line should be opening up in an hour, but if you don't want to wait I can take you over to the kitchen."

He is, but he's still nauseas too, so he shakes his head. "Thanks, though, fer everything."

Paul smiles and nods, reaching for his coat that he's got shoved down on the seat next to him. "All right, ah... I can get outta your hair."

Which would be a good thing, Daryl figures. In a while, he's going to have to go outside. See what's going on, see if he can face Maggie better than he'd done just a little while ago. If he's lucky, he'll get through it without freaking out just because she's standing too close. 

Even if there ain't no fixing it, he knows the two of them need to talk, if only so she can have her say. He just needs a few minutes to figure out where to start. How to open his mouth out of turn, how not to flinch just because someone's looking at him. 

Jesus is already gathering his things up- he's shoving the plastic box into his pocket- but the cards are still on the table.

The shower had helped, but his throat's still dry as he asks, "That a full deck?" 

"Huh?" Jesus follows his gaze down to the table and pulls a face. "Haven't counted yet. Could be." Looking back up at him, for a moment that seems like it's about to become too long, he squints, just a little. Daryl knows he's being assessed, but something in Jesus' expression looks kinda hopeful, maybe. And a little uncertain. "You want to check 'em out, throw down a hand or two?"

"You got anywhere you gotta be?"

"For the next little while? I'm really just intent on avoiding Gregory."

\--- 

Huddled over the small table, they're using pens and caps for chips; low, pointless stakes. For the moment, the cards are the only thing Daryl needs to focus on. 

The nice thing about poker is that nobody needs to talk. Jesus might look over at him every once in a while like he's trying to figure him out, but there's a reason for it that's got nothing to do with anything other than the cards Daryl's holding. 

That'll probably change at some point soon, but Jesus ain't pressing the issue. He doesn't even look like he _wants_ to. 

The idea creeps into Daryl's head that this, here- maybe it's the same for him. 'Cause Jesus is leaning on his elbows, shoulders rounded and face slack as he stares down at the hand he's been dealt. Right now, when he doesn't realize that Daryl's looking, he seems calm, almost at ease. 

Maybe he's just tired. He's seen Jesus unconscious, but it's only right now that it looks like he's resting. 

Daryl hasn't even asked what all had happened that had led Jesus to be runnin' around Negan's backyard, or what it had taken for him to get there, but the odds are good that it's not a nice story. It'll come out eventually, inevitably, along with the questions and the worry and a whole mess of things that they're going to actually have to _deal_ with, but there ain't no sense in digging it up before they have to. 

Jesus had walked around a corner to catch him beating a man's head in, and he'd helped him escape without question. Keepin' his trap shut for the span of a few rounds of cards ain't gonna repay that, but maybe it's a start. 

One hand later, and most of his pens have migrated to the pile at Jesus' elbow. It's starting to occur to Daryl that he needs to pay attention to his cards, rather than the man in front of him, if he's got any hopes of evening it out. But before he gets the chance, there's shouting coming from down in the yard. 

His spine goes straight at the same time Jesus' shoulders go rigid; Daryl hadn't imagined it. Someone's out there shouting about Alexandria. 

Jesus sets his cards face down with a disappointed sigh that becomes a rueful grin. "Should go down and look," he says, shaking off the last vestiges of relaxation as he builds himself up into whatever the next few minutes require of him. "You want to see what it's about?"

Daryl waits for the dread to choke him again. 

Only, it's there, but he's still breathing. He can't just sit and play cards and ignore it indefinitely. The low speed wobble's already there, it's never really been gone. There's a crash coming one way or the other- this, here, sitting down and playing cards, it was never going to be more than a temporary pause- and it won't even take much to set it off. 

It might be Maggie, wanting to talk, or worse, wanting to listen. It might be that someone out there will move too suddenly, and he'll to forget not to flinch. It could be some other new hell he hasn't even thought of, or the simple act of his own brain catching up with the rest of him. But he's got a lock on it for now, he decides, and as long as nothing picks at it, he can keep it together. 

As far as actually responding to the question goes? 

He's not sure about choices, yet. What he _wants_ hasn't been translating into _getting_ , not for a while now, and he's out of practice when it comes down to trying. 

Following is easier than choosing. So if Jesus is squaring his shoulders and moving to stand, it seems a small thing for Daryl to detangle his own legs from underneath the table.

"Yeah," he says, once it's clear that they're heading off to face whatever's coming regardless. "Probably should."

The cards are still in his hand. He sets them down, but doesn't shuffle them back into the deck, in case they come back to the game later. 

It's not an expectation, or even a plan. But when he glances back as they head for the door, Jesus' coat is still slung over the bench, and Daryl thinks that maybe- _maybe_ \- it could be.


End file.
